


a closed drawer seduction

by o_gets_pegged



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka
Genre: (???), Crack Treated Seriously, Eventual Smut, Kissing, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25557292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o_gets_pegged/pseuds/o_gets_pegged
Summary: The Master sets off in pursuit of knowledge and doesn't exactly find what he wants. Feat denial of feelings despite being married.Or: stupid crackfic idea taken 100% seriously. Thank god I'm done with this it was the fic from hell to edit.
Relationships: Ninth Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	a closed drawer seduction

It began because the Master was too curious for his own good.

He should have known not to say anything: _Curiosity killed the cat_ , as the poets said. (And yet. _Satisfaction brought it back._ ) Did he really need to know what was behind that bonus locked door? Did he really need to know why the Doctor’s brows were scrunched together, why he kept scribbling at his paper with the passion of a madman? 

But the Master was _curious_. He was so curious it ached, deep in his lovingly manufactured bones, flickering across his artificial skin. He lay awake at night, listening to the quiet humming of the TARDIS reflecting in his consciousness, wondering what the Doctor was so embarrassed by. And he _was_ embarrassed. When the Master came close to peeking at what he was looking at, he flushed and murmured, “Oh nothing, really, nothing” and when the Master dared to prod around in his brain, the Doctor always thought very hard about operas to drive him off.

The Doctor was lying on the couch, arms crossed over his chest like a dead man, his eyes closed. (The Master presumed he was being tremendously dramatic again. He did so like that, even if his only audience was his own nemesis. The Master was never very impressed, anyway). He was deep, deep in thought — perfectly distracted, then. The Master knelt next to him and murmured, _“What’s the drawer for?”_

The Doctor gasped and sprang up, his arm flying back and knocking the Master solidly on the forehead. He looked around, frantically, for any enemies in sight, only to see his most familiar, least alarming enemy beside him. “You can’t do that,” he said, crossly. 

“I can do whatever I please,” said the Master. He smiled down fondly at the Doctor, who lied back down on the couch, and stroked his hair. 

“What drawer,” asked the Doctor, deadpan. He frowned, settling into the cushions of the couch, and his brows crushed together in thought. The Doctor was quite the interesting sight, when he was truly, profoundly _thinking_ : every so often, his eyelids twitched, as if to focus more intently on whatever visions swam beneath them, his lips were relentlessly pressed together as if to ensure they disappeared altogether, and his big, beautiful brain was so deep at work the Master could nearly hear the gears grinding together. 

The Master continued the motion of his hand atop the Doctor’s head, hoping to distract his husband enough to elicit the tiniest, catlike purr from his throat. He was sorely disappointed. The Master had quite possibly antagonized him too much, depriving himself of any however well-earned amusement. “The drawer in your laboratory,” said the Master, considering hooking a curl of the Doctor’s carefully styled hair around his finger to tug. The Doctor might not have admitted to what he so dearly desired, but it would encourage _some_ reaction, at the very least. 

“There are…” The Doctor trailed off. “Hm.”

The Master bent down, his lips hovering above the Doctor’s mouth. The Master did not have to breathe, if he didn’t want to, but it was still a small comfort for air to keep his lungs pulsing. Similarly, his heartbeat was unnecessary and, as it currently stood, faintly unnatural. It relieved him, in some horrifically emotional fashion, to think that his body still functioned as it once did. “There are?” the Master repeated. The words were simple, but his tone was low and calculating, designed to reach into the Doctor’s mind and tug his answer right out. The Master burned with the wanting — the wanting to _know_ , properly. 

And the Master knew the Doctor, in so many ways. Biblically, yes — intimately in countless aspects. He knew how the Doctor made decisions. He knew the Doctor’s favorite _Parks and Rec_ character and his favorite romance author and his favorite scene from _A New Hope_. He knew the curve of the Doctor’s collarbone and the angle of his nose, and he knew all the Doctors before this one, and he would know all the Doctors after.

It disturbed the Master greatly that there was one piece of the Doctor he was not privy to. It snaked around in him, day after day, that he didn’t know the Doctor inside and out, entirely, without exception. The Master was well aware it was an unhealthy thought to harbor, and yet, he couldn’t help his yearning for the Doctor to be taken apart. Sexually, intellectually, _emotionally_... it didn't really matter in what fashion, just so long as the Master could watch with clinical absorption.

“There are a lot of drawers in my laboratory,” said the Doctor finally, breaths away from the Master’s mouth. His breath smelled like red wine and caramel. His head tilted up, so their lips met for the barest fraction of a second before the Master pulled away. The Doctor mewled in disappointment.

The Master tapped the tip of his nose. “Only one is locked, dear,” he said. Temptation truly was the quickest way to a man’s heart, he’d learned, and there was no one he knew how to tempt quite as skillfully as his dearest Doctor. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” the Doctor sputtered, squirming. The Master grasped his jaw and steadied his head. “Let _go_ of me,” he said, thrashing to get free. 

The Master shook his head. This was all dangerously close to what they once had: real threats, real peril. The Maser hadn’t thought he’d miss it. He was finding out very rapidly that he had, most likely, been wrong. “Tell me what it is,” he insisted, letting his voice drop again, so cheap and sultry he sounded fresh out of a poorly filmed pornography. It had been a long while since the Doctor had allowed him to pull a power play like this, and the Master had to admit, the absence of it really did make the hearts grow fonder. 

(Were they playing? Was this some twisted foreplay? It wouldn’t be the first time.) (Except it all felt so _real_ , the Master thought. If the twinkling in the Doctor’s eyes were any indicator, it was a welcome rush of adrenaline for him as well).

“Plans,” said the Doctor. “ _Your_ plans. That’s all. Plans.”

The Master leaned forward and gave the Doctor a very wet kiss on the mouth. “Elaborate,” he commanded. Perhaps, in their next repair date, the Master would ask for more arms. Another would be very useful right now, to slip in the Doctor’s trousers while he kept him trapped. 

“Nothing to elaborate.” The Doctor looked like he would particularly appreciate a hand in his trousers. He reached up and threw the Master’s hand off his face, effectively ending his fun. “If you wouldn’t mind?”

The Master, for his countless faults, knew when he was beaten. He kissed the Doctor for good measure, with tongue, before stalking away. He would get the full story… eventually. 

If the Master had gained anything in his captivity on the Doctor’s TARDIS, it was stocks and stocks of patience. He drew on them now: eventually, he vowed. _Eventually._

* * *

The second time the Master thought to approach the Doctor about the matter was after dinner, when they held a viewing of _The Princess Bride_ , the Doctor’s legs thrown carelessly over the Master’s, each of them engaging in polite but inhospitable affection. Every so often, the Doctor gave the Master a cold pat on the arm, or a kiss on the cheek, and then they returned to their opposite sides of the couch. The Master had a feeling that the Doctor was hoping for something warmer. For his part, the Master was perfectly all right with their momentary separation. 

However. For his objective, and solely for his objective, the Master shifted slightly closer. The blatant flirtation hadn’t achieved what he’d wanted, so he’d attempt something kinder. “You’re very warm,” he murmured, slipping a hand up the back of the Doctor’s shirt. 

(He’d removed his cape and stiff jacket, both thrown over a chair in the East Wing dining room, his necktie forgotten on the bridge after he’d snagged it on the console, and a few buttons of his shirt undone. It was all very comfortable, although the Master held a strong belief that clothes were meant to stay on until they were meant to be off, and anything sloppily in between was pointless and indolent).

The Doctor looked over, sporting an expression the Master’s systems informed him was an almost-imperceptible surprise. “Your heaters are broken again?” he said, and the Master could feel his presence prodding around in his brain, checking for broken structures. 

The Master let himself activate his own blush. He hadn’t inflicted any damage to his heating system, for the sole reason that the Doctor would guess he was being sentimental. (Not to mention that repairs were only another fussy, mortifying opportunity for the Doctor to act concerned and adoring, which was the last thing the Master wanted, right now). He flexed his fingers against the Doctor’s bare skin. 

When the Doctor was satisfied that nothing was broken, a small smile flickered over his lips. “You really are softer than you like to think,” he said.

The Master bit back his denial. He didn’t like this pretense. It made him seem so vulnerable. “Only after living with you,” allowed the Master, trailing his fingers up and down the Doctor’s organic spine. He did not envy stupidly fleshy natural beings anymore. He was perfectly happy in his manufactured self, lovingly tended to and repaired by his Doctor — by _the_ Doctor. 

The Doctor looked as if he wanted to be kissed. He had a certain look about him whenever he was thinking about kissing: a faint blush, dreamy eyes, the edges of his mouth twitching up every so often as if he couldn’t help his smile. “I rather like it when you’re…” The Doctor paused. “Like this,” he decided, although the Master knew what he meant. _Tender. Weak. Foolish._

“You’re,” said the Master very quietly. “ _Beautiful_.” And he cupped his hand around the back of the Doctor’s neck and kissed him. It was for the Doctor’s benefit, not his own, he’d told himself, but the Master found himself falling against his slim chest. 

“You never say that to me,” said the Doctor, his eyes crinkling in a half-smile. The Doctor had always responded so wonderfully to flattery, and, the Master thought, he must like it better from the mouth of his own creation. 

“Would you like me to say it more?” The Master dipped his head and let his lips rove over the Doctor’s collarbones, let his hand fall out of the Doctor’s shirt and let his fingertips linger on the buttons of his shirt. 

The Doctor nodded, infinitesimally, and seemed to surrender himself to the Master’s whims. _Good. Perfect._ Exactly what the Master wanted. 

He unbuttoned down the Doctor’s shirt to slide it off his shoulder and kissed down the Doctor’s neck. It was all very warm and affectionate. (The Master made a point of hating it, in the back of his mind.) 

“Well, then —” The Master cut off his own sentence by snagging his teeth on the Doctor’s skin. He made a little noise of appreciation. Appreciation? Discomfort? Both? “— as you wish,” he finished, thinking himself quite brilliant. _As you wish_ really meant _I love you_ , he remembered, a fraction of a second too late. 

The Doctor whispered the tiniest _oh_ with every clever brush of the Master’s teeth on his skin. _Oh oh oh_. The Master thought the quiet sounds were good as an entire orchestra, playing in the back of his brain, encouraging him to press onward. 

With that thought in mind, the Master’s fingers crept down to the buttons of the Doctor’s trousers, hoping the Doctor would reveal the contents of that damned drawer with more enjoyable persuasion. The Doctor swatted him away. “The movie,” he said.

The Master pouted. “Just a bit?”

“A bit of _what_ ,” said the Doctor, and then his eyes widened. “Oh. _Oh_. Is that what you meant to lead up to, with all this?”

The Master thought privately that it should have been obvious. “Possibly,” he said. “Are you opposed to the idea?”

The Doctor wiggled in place a little, before remembering that he just didn’t _do_ that anymore, and then said, “Not particularly,” his voice even. 

“Good,” said the Master. 

“After the movie.”

The Master tucked his head in the hollow of the Doctor’s neck and hated his newfound false vulnerability. “Can you tell me what’s in that drawer,” he said, dreamily, his eyes closed. And then: “You’re so pretty, dearest.”

The Doctor brushed his finger against the back of the Master’s neck, and the Master couldn’t help his sharp, happy gasp. When the Master’s body had been originally built, the Doctor had installed several modules that sent trickles of pleasure through his false nerve endings. “No,” said the Doctor.

“You’re embarrassed.” The Master felt around on the couch until he found the Doctor’s hand, and curled his fingers around it. “Let me guess.”

“I can’t stop you.”

“Your horrible drawings.” A squeeze of the Doctor’s hand. “Your sex toys.” A kiss to the Doctor’s neck, again. “Your fanfiction of _Eureka_.” A small stroke of the Doctor’s inner arm, which the Master happened to know was deliciously sensitive.

“None of those things. I told you they were parts of your plans. How did you know about the…” The Doctor went pink. 

“Your fanfiction?” The Master was curled uncomfortably across the Doctor, and his joints had started to ache. He could, of course, switch off his pain sensors. The primary issue with _that_ was that the action would turn off his pleasure sensors, too, which took an hour at least to warm back up again, and if this encounter was to go as the Master wanted it to that would be very unhelpful. Instead, the Master simply changed his position, resting his head on the Doctor’s lap and flinging his legs over the opposite armrest. “My brain _is_ connected to the TARDIS. She tells me things, sometimes.”

(Just a little while ago, the Master would have detested even the thought of saying those words. But living with the Doctor for a long time wasn’t so bad, even if he had his gloomy days of moping around, and even if he drank most of the alcohol before the Master could get to it. He still wasn’t sure if it was possible for his robotic body to get drunk.)

“I’ll have a chat with her about that, I think,” he muttered to himself, scowling. “Can you, er…”

“ _Speak to the TARDIS about being a little bitch_ added to your reminders,” intoned the Master. His overflowing memory banks were useful, sometimes. “It’s the fanfiction then,” he added, disappointed at the fruits of his fairly intense labor. 

“What? No! It is _not_ my fanfiction. Good grief.” (This regeneration of the Doctor liked to say things like _goodness gracious_ and _good grief_ , as if he was an older woman who knitted a lot. It frustrated the Master to no end. _“Just fucking curse, please,”_ he’d said, on more than one occasion. The Doctor had merely smiled, and said, _“Your language! Goodness gracious,”_ and then went to make another cup of tea). “It’s none of your business.”

“It isn’t my plans, then.” 

The Doctor frowned. “It is your plans.”

“My plans _are_ my business.” 

“Perhaps,” said the Doctor dismissively. “What do you think of my hair, by the by?”

The Master couldn’t tell anything different about his hair, but he knew the Doctor well enough to recognize a deft change of subject. Whatever was in that drawer of his was either a guilty pleasure or simply a guilty topic, and the Master burned to know which. “It looks fine,” said the Master, brusque. “It looks fine.”

“Watch the movie,” said the Doctor. The Master kept himself from rolling his eyes at the blatant command, but only barely. 

They had missed a majority of the middle of the story, but it was all right; _The Princess Bride_ wasn’t exactly the most difficult thing to follow, especially considering that they’d watched it many times before.

“As you wish,” said the Master. _I love you. As you wish. What is in your drawer_. Synonyms, thought the Master. 

He still hadn’t achieved what he’d wanted. The Master crossed one leg over the other and considered if _anything_ would work, in the end. The Doctor was just so horribly stubborn when he wanted to be.

But then again, so was he.

* * *

The Master asked one more time when his husband was performing routine repairs. 

An old song was playing softly from a half-broken cassette player in the corner, and the Doctor hummed along as he tinkered on the Master’s back. ( _“It’s very odd to see you like this,”_ the Doctor commented. _“With a slab of flesh missing.”_ The Master thought that was a pointlessly anxious sentiment.) 

The Master had long since learned to sit still while the Doctor poked around in him, despite the intense tingling in his sensors. He couldn’t help fidgeting today, though. His eyes lingered on that blasted drawer, padlock firmly in place, and he scowled. “Happy.”

“Hm?”

“It’s _a little time/and I’ll make you happy_. Not _mine_.” The Master twitched involuntarily as the Doctor’s hand brushed against the side of the wrong cluster of wires, sending clutches of discomfort through his body. He cleared his throat. “ _Happy_.”

The Doctor grunted in agreement. The Master was uncomfortably aware that his fingers were slick with sweat, leaving a sheen of perspiration across the Master’s unnatural metal innards. 

“Perhaps you should take a break,” he said. “A very small one.”

“No,” said the Doctor.

_Build Me Up, Buttercup_ continued to play. The Master had the distinct feeling of being in a tinny, dramatic film, where he was the tragic love interest and the Doctor, the dashing protagonist. What does one say, when one is in such a movie? Something horribly theatrical, he was sure. “What’s in the drawer over there?”

The Doctor’s work stopped, suddenly, and the Master wondered if he was greatly offended. Perhaps, the Master thought, he shouldn’t be so aggravatingly mysterious. “You’re right. I’ll take a break. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you. The drawer?” The Master picked up the panel of his back that sat next to him and passed it to the Doctor. The Doctor began screwing it back in. “There’s something in there, Doctor. What is it?”

“Nothing.” The Doctor handed the Master his shirt, and the Master shrugged it on and began to button it up. He told the Doctor that he didn’t like showing off the imperfections and more obvious robotic features below his collar. It was, in reality, a careful upkeep of his pristine professionalism. Who was he, if he was no longer covered head-to-toe in black fabric? Not _the Master_ , that was certain.

The Master twisted his head around to meet the Doctor’s eyes. “I want to know.”

“You do not,” said the Doctor, reaching forward to brush off invisible dust from the Master’s sleeve. The Master’s breath caught unexpectedly in his throat. This Doctor wasn’t one for unprompted touch. “A drink?”

“No, thank you,” said the Master, again. “Can you please tell me what’s in the drawer.”

“I will not.” 

“ _Please_.” The Master thought he had never wanted anything quite as much as this. He wanted the Doctor, daily, and he wanted the noises of the TARDIS to disappear from his mind, and he wanted to see the _sky_ — but this was something different. This was an all-consuming, desperate, painful, intense _want_ that qualified, in his opinion, more as a need.

At the Doctor’s telling silence, the Master stood up. “If you won’t answer me,” said the Master, and pressed his lips together, “I’ll be…” He searched for a way to upset the Doctor, and found nothing. The Master was considerably less intimidating when he could be easily dismantled or shut down at a flick of the Doctor’s fingers. “I’ll be gone,” said the Master.

The Doctor licked his lips. “No, wait,” he said. “Don’t go. It — it is your plans. The drawer does have your plans.” His face was poppy-red. The Master's mouth did not go dry anymore, but the consuming urge to kiss and test the heat on his cheeks left him with a similar sensation.

“Ah,” he said, evenly. “My plans.”

“Your plans for…” The Doctor’s eyes flicked down to the Master’s thighs.

The Master blinked.

The Doctor looked a little longer at his crotch, as if trying to make a specific point. 

“My penis,” said the Master, blandly.

The Doctor went pinker. “Yes. Erm. It… comes off?” He made a gesture that seemed ambiguously offensive. “It comes off,” he said again, helplessly.

“My penis,” said the Master. “Comes off.” He had not quite figured out how to feel about both his surprising success and his newfound information regarding his genitals. The possibilities of what one (or rather, what the _Doctor_ ) could do with such a thing were not quite yet clear to him, although he was darkly curious to find out.

“Yes,” said the Doctor. 

“And what do you plan to do with my penis.” The Master was temporarily astonished that he had said those words aloud. “After it has been… _detached_.”

The Doctor sucked on his teeth. “I plan to.” He made another gesture, that was definitely considered rude in myriad cultures across myriad planets. “Possibly.”

The Master nodded and held out his hand. His wanting to know what was in the drawer had been swiftly replaced with a violent, frantic wanting for the _Doctor_. “How would you like to test it out?” The Master’s nerve endings — the wires clustered below his skin — were especially sensitive after repairs, and he itched to satisfy them. 

“I would like that very much.” The Doctor knelt down and touched his lips gently to the Master’s fingers. “The bedroom, then?”

“The bedroom,” agreed the Master. 

The Master had expected his _detachable penis_ to be more exciting to remove than the reality of the thing, in spite of his nakedness. But the Doctor’s fingers were neither sensual nor painful as he unfastened it, resting it on the bed and giving it a pat, as if assuring it he would be giving it his full attention quite soon. 

The Master, from his seat on the bed, said, “Will this at all be enjoyable for _me_?” 

“Be patient.” The Doctor’s hand snaked around the Master’s neck and flipped a small, hidden switch. His other hand crept across the quilt and stroked the Master’s detached penis. The Master disliked the concept, but he quickly forgot when his hips jutted forward without his permission. 

The Master gasped. “What was that?” And then: “No, no, don’t tell me, _do it again._ ”

A smile flicked over the Doctor’s lips. “Give me a moment.” His hand drifted away and towards the button of his trousers. “On the floor, would you?”

The Master’s eyebrows lifted. “No, thank you.”

The Doctor paused his undressing of himself to give the Master’s cock a squeeze. “Floor, please.” He slid his trousers off and took a moment to fold them and place them on the pillow next to him. 

The Master fell down to his knees. “I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“One moment,” the Doctor tutted.

“Excuse me. You’re being very rude.”

The Master heard a drawer open beside the bed. “One _moment_ , my dear Master.”

“ _Doctor_. I am your spouse.” 

The Doctor made a stifled squeaking noise and the Master felt something very strange, but not unpleasant between his legs. “You’re _very_ impatient.” 

“Is there anything I’m meant to be —” The Master’s lips opened, suddenly, and he cried out at the thrust of pleasure rushing through him. He spent a second wondering how strange it felt that there was nothing down there, although all _those_ thoughts were chasing out of his brain so he could focus on what the Doctor was doing to him.

(What _was_ the Doctor doing to him?)

“Is this all right,” said the Doctor above him. The pleasure halted.

The Master leaned into the mattress and pressed his face into the sheets. “Continue,” he said. “ _If you will_.”

Whatever the Doctor _was_ doing, it was delicious, and the Master rocked back and forth, gently moaning into the sheets. He grabbed at the soft fabric tighter in his fist and rutted his hips against the end of it as pleasure rippled through him. 

The Master heaved himself up to peek at the Doctor. His thighs were open, his hands between his legs, his mouth forming an _O_ to the ceiling, although the Master thought it a pity that he wasn’t making much noise. “Dear,” he hissed.

The Doctor halted his incessant thrusting of the Master’s cock into himself to look over, his face wet and his eyes wide. “Hello,” he said, with a wobbly smile.

“You’re very quiet, darling.”

The Doctor reached out and brushed his fingertip down the Master’s nose. “Would you like that to…” He gulped, seemingly for no reason at all, and continued, “Would you like me to be _louder_?” in a more strangled tone. 

The Master grinned, showcasing his perfectly straight teeth, and said, “ _Yes_.” 

There was, even after all the time the Master had spent being cordial and polite and physically affectionate, a glorious satisfaction in seeing the Doctor’s thin lips part and hearing a glorious, unrestrained moan escape his mouth. Only his newfound control over his robotic body prevented him from copying the man, and as it was, the Master couldn’t help the movement of his hand unconsciously slipping between his legs, to ride his own palm, although there was nothing there. 

There was only the Doctor. There had only _ever_ been the Doctor, the Doctor and his silly sideways grins and his clear, ringing laughter. _This Doctor and all the Doctors before him,_ and the Master wanted to know them all, inside and out, until he collapsed with the blissful _knowing_ of it all. 

And the Doctor writhed and moaned and the Master pressed his lips together and rocked back and forth, and the Master’s lips formed the words _I love you_ over and over again, silently, into the sheets. It was, in no way, a new revelation, but the Master’s chest swelled with desire as the Doctor debauched himself. 

_I love you. I love you. I —_

The Master stifled a moan as his hips thrust faster and faster, mirroring the Doctor’s increasingly erratic movements. The Doctor’s uneven breathing was a prayer, his barely visible pale legs twin effigies to their coupled pleasure, his moans were a cacophony of the words the Master left unspoken. The Master found himself pleading for release, for his thoughts to be plunged into sweet, sweet obscurity. “Don’t —” he begged, unsure what he was asking the Doctor not to do.

The Master, despite his nearly complete control over his body, found himself crying out, his voice ringing through the room as the Doctor pushed him deep inside. He came clutching two fistfuls of silk fabric, every inch of his synthetic skin crying out for the Doctor’s touch.

_I love you._

_As you wish._

_What’s in your drawer._

The Master’s limbs, when he finally opened his eyes, were leaden and heavy and refused to comply with his will. That was all right. He could lay slumped on the ground for a little longer.

“How was that,” said the Doctor raggedly, from the bed. 

“Not bad,” said the Master. “Not bad at all.” The Master thought that perhaps he should ask for his cock back, but he’d quite forgotten about it in the excitement. He saw it on the bed stand. It could wait, he decided.

The Doctor, flushed and smiling, patted the mattress next to him, and the Master climbed up onto the bed and lied atop the blankets. He tugged his shirt off without unbuttoning it. The Master winced as he heard stitches pop. “Good,” said the Doctor, and the Master was unsure if it was a declaration or a question.

“Good,” said the Master. He reached across and, after an eternity of contemplation, pet the Doctor’s bare arm. The Master thought the Doctor had purposely placed a spattering of freckles there during his most recent regeneration, for the Master to kiss, but now he only touched them gently. “Good,” he said again.

“Good,” said the Doctor, and laughed. “I thought…”

The Master held his breath. 

“I love you,” said the Doctor. “Get under here, won’t you?”

The Master, after a bit of hesitation, snuggled beneath the blankets. He opened his mouth, as if to say something. Nothing came forward. 

The Doctor laughed again. 

The Master brushed his fingertips against the Doctor’s bare chest, his skin overwhelmingly soft. _Mine,_ he thought. _All mine._ “I love you,” said the Master. 

“Hm?”

The Master withdrew his hand. “Nothing,” he said. He thought about drawers. He thought about love. He thought about princesses. He thought about the Doctor, and how the Doctor was the only recurring motif in his miserable life that he could trust. He thought about how he could never say any of that aloud. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” said the Doctor, and ran his tongue over his lips.

“If you’re going to rest —” The Master didn’t finish his sentence. “If you’re going to sleep,” he said. “I can stay.”

The Doctor laughed. When had he last laughed this much? “Stay,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Stay.”

The Master refrained from pointing out that he’d said that already. “I’ll stay,” he promised, and he wondered how long that promise would last. 

He watched the Doctor drift to sleep. Once his breathing evened out and the Master was convinced the act would go unnoticed, he nestled his body against his husband. The Master felt his chest rise and fall with every inhale and exhale. “I love you,” the Master whispered. “I love you. I love you.” 

The Doctor’s hand settled unconsciously on the Master’s waist. His skin tingled. The Master could no longer sleep, but his eyelids were heavy, and he felt the urge to yawn. He hadn’t yawned in a very long time. 

“Sleep well,” he said.

The Doctor did not reply. 


End file.
